


Lightning and Sea Glass

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Caretaker John, Eventual Smut, F/F, Fairly explicit sexual content, Frankenlock, Frankenstein AU, Frankenstein crossover, Frottage, Halloween, Hand Jobs, M/M, Magic, Magical Realism, Minor Violence, Mute Sherlock, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Protective John, Romance, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-24 01:25:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4900213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mad Professor Moriarty and his reluctant assistant John Watson have reanimated the dead -- and the results are beautiful. At least John thinks so. When Moriarty rejects his creation, John disappears with the creature to protect it, sealing their fates together. </p><p>(Loosely inspired by Mary Shelley's Frankenstein)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The storm rumbled and churned over the castle, lightning piercing the midnight sky in jagged flashes. John glanced at the corpse laid out on the table and covered with a sheet, only the tips of fingers and toes exposed. Wires, tubes, and bubbling glass vials surrounded the body, all connected to an immense machine studded with dials and knobs and more coiled wire.

Professor Moriarty’s eyes were crazed as he muttered and adjusted various devices, repeatedly glancing overhead at the opening in the roof above them.

“Tonight, Watson. Tonight. I can feel it in my bones,” Moriarty swept past John, grinning maniacally at him. “I will prevail. I will defeat death.”

Moriarty was utterly mad, twisted, but John said nothing, moving carefully out of the way of the professor as he rushed about. What they were doing was wrong, John knew. There were old tales of the undead, stories of zombies and vampires that fed off the living. Moriarty was convinced he could restore life completely, perfectly. He sought eternity, just as alchemists sought gold.

A loud crash of thunder reverberated through the stone walls and Moriarty cackled. “Do you hear that? Soon! Now move, you fool.”

John slid further to the side, his eyes going to the body on the table. He kept his eyes fixed on one partially exposed hand. The fingers were long, artistic. He himself had dug up the body that the hands once belonged to. A musician. A violinist who had died of consumption.

The hands were stitched to the arms, torso, and legs of another body he and Moriarty had exhumed. A young man in his twenties, a sailor far from home, tall and lithe with ropy muscles. A crude skull and crossbones tattoo adorned his right bicep, probably based more bravado than any actual deeds of piracy.

He had dropped dead in the street while on leave, an undetected hole in his heart felling him in his prime, his head unfortunately bashed on the cobblestones where he had collapsed, his feet severed by a carriage clipping by in the dark. John had removed the sailor's heart, studied the hole in the wall separating the two sides of the organ, then carefully stitched in a new heart gleaned from a man in his 30s without family, a bit of an eccentric and philosopher who ran a small printing press.

The feet had come from a day laborer used to walking long distances to work odd jobs. He never suspected the cut on his hand would become so badly infected that it would poison his blood and lead to his demise.

John knew almost every inch of the body, pale and preserved, had touched and inspected and admired the complexity of veins in the arms, the sparse dark hair on the chest, the rounded buttocks, the soft prick nestled between lean thighs, the long toes. He had seen everything except the face.

John looked away, disgusted with himself. He had never meant to defile the dead this way. He had been a medical student, a scholar of the human body and its ailments. His intentions were to help and heal. But then disaster struck his family. His father, a drinker and gambler, had died unceremoniously, trampled under the hooves of a startled horse outside a tavern. He then learned that his father had accrued serious debt, forcing his mother and sister to seek work at a faraway estate and ending John’s education.

But there were ways to both make money and study anatomy. John knew the medical school was not above accepting mysterious deliveries of large boxes in the middle of the night, so he watched and waited one evening, then cautiously approached the supplier, offering his strong back and quick hands. Soon he was employed with a spade and lantern and found himself shoveling out six feet of dank cemetery earth in the darkest hours.

It was only temporary, John had told himself. He’d do just enough jobs to pay for school and boarding fees, then he would stop. The wrongs would be righted by his work as a doctor.

But then Professor Moriarty had appeared beside a fresh grave one moonless night, seducing John with promises of science and progress and pound sterling, and John had slid down a slippery slope into this madness of rekindling the dead.

John’s eyes roved back to the body. Bodies, he corrected himself, stitched together from several less fortunate souls. He had not seen the completed form yet, the search for an intact head proving more difficult than anticipated. Moriarty had procured a skull from somewhere, had spent days locked away putting the final touches on his creation.

He had summoned John tonight in anticipation of the storm, needing his help to harness the power of a lightning strike to spark life back into the corpse. John had done all the preparations that Moriarty had asked of him as the storm mounted, and now his job was to watch, to be witness to the mad genius before him. John hated Moriarty. And he hated himself for being part of this.

Moriarty stood by a set of controls, his body tense, eyeing the sky above. A sudden blinding flash and an ear-shattering crash caused John to turn away and round his shoulders reflexively. The hair on his arms and back of his neck stood up, his skin tingling.

Moriarty laughed again, clapped his hands together. "Yessss," he hissed, muttering to himself as he approached the table.

John stood transfixed, watching the scene as if in a nightmare. More lightning flickered above them, thunder growling, drops of cold rain sifting down into the laboratory. John kept his eyes on the fingers protruding from under the white sheet.

They moved. A twitch. He swore he saw it. He shot a glance at Moriarty. "Professor...?" John started doubtfully.

"There! Did you see?" Moriarty shouted, rushing forward and grabbing the sheet to pull it back.

His legs heavy as lead, John inched closer, unable to resist looking. The body lay exposed, the head crowned with a shock of unruly black hair, the chest and arms pale as snow, the sheet pooled below the slim hips. The fingers clenched, the ribs rose and fell with a horrible wheeze.

"I've done it... " Moriarty whispered harshly. "It's alive!"

The corpse moved its head from side to side, small convulsions shaking its frame. John gaped at the bluish lips, full and perfectly formed, the aquiline nose, the high cheekbones. The thick black sutures at the neck and wrists strained, the ugly wound that ran down the sternum stretched but did not break or bleed. Despite the body being cobbled together, John found it somehow beautiful and balanced, an artist's macabre sketch come alive.

The body stopped shuddering and stilled. Gathering his courage, John stepped closer, peered down into the strange face as Moriarty grasped the being’s wrist, feeling for life.

Dark lashes rested above ashen cheeks, the lips slightly parted. The man had once been very handsome, John thought, a wave of pity pouring through him. A life cut short.

The eyes snapped open. John gasped and stumbled backwards, but not far enough away to avoid the fingers that shot out and clutched at the front of his shirt.

The creature drew in a low breath that sounded like a death rattle, it's eyes wild before landing on John's face. They rested there, terrified.

"My God," Moriarty breathed. "It lives."

John barely heard the words, blood pounding in his ears, equally amazed and terrified as he stared back at the reanimated corpse. The eyes were the most unusual color he'd ever seen -- blue, green, gold. He couldn't move, too stunned by the horror and the beauty of the creature lying on the slab beneath him.

**************

Hours went by in a blur as Moriarty prodded and measured and tested the creature. It was too weak to sit up, it's eyes alert but frightened. It would stare uneasily at the professor then seek out John's face again, wary.

John stayed close by, recording in a leather-bound notebook the results Moriarty barked out about pupils and dilation, reflexes and respiration rates. At one point John rubbed his eyes, nearly asleep on his feet. He couldn't quite believe it, the thing -- the half-being -- was alive. This was a sort of magic he’d never seen with his own eyes. Or was this purely science? The old ways, the beliefs in dark magic were dying away, but now he had his doubts.

It didn't speak. Didn't make a sound apart from labored breathing that was becoming quieter as the minutes passed. Moriarty finally stretched his back and shoulders. "We'll stop for tonight. Begin again tomorrow."

He pulled a length of chain from beneath the table and snapped a cuff around the creature's ankle. "Just in case you decide to try to wander off. Watson, you'll sleep in the bed chamber next door. Fetch me immediately if there's any change."

"Yes, sir."

Moriarty left the laboratory, and John slowly stood up. The creature gazed at him, its eyes like that of a caged animal. In a sudden compulsion, John pulled the sheet across the creature’s body again, covering its naked form, offering it some privacy and warmth, if either of those things mattered.

“I’ll be back,” John found himself saying in low tone. “Don’t worry.” He lingered a moment more, then walked away, fighting down the guilt rising up in his gut.

**************

Over the next several days the creature slowly gained enough strength to sit up on the table, then stand, then take halting steps. It ate bread in small bites, drank sips of water from a cup held in two trembling hands. It reminded John of watching a toddler learn to walk, or a newborn foal gaining control of its long limbs.

At first, loud noises, bright lights, and sudden movements easily startled the creature, but as it gradually gained more knowledge of its surroundings it grew calmer, remaining wary.

John was amazed at the progress, but Moriarty was not satisfied. He grew increasingly angry at its lack of coordination, its inability to speak.

“It’s little more than an animal,” Moriarty sneered, frustrated by his attempts to get the creature to utter one word. “A mute, clumsy, stupid beast!” He grabbed a glass beaker from the workbench and hurled it against the stone wall where it shattered, causing both John and the creature to cringe.

“I can make a better one. I know what to change,” Moriarty muttered, pacing in circles. “We’ll start again, adjust the ratio of --”

“Sir,” John interrupted. “With all due respect, I think it needs more time. It’s like a child, having to learn and experience everything. It’s come so far already--”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion, Mr. Watson,” Moriarty replied icily. “I don’t intend to waste my valuable time teaching an idiotic beast how to think and speak. I can create a man fully formed and intelligent. We’ll destroy this failed attempt and begin anew.”

John stared at the madman in front of him. “But, sir -- it’s learning. It obviously has intelligence, and ---”

Moriarty held up a hand, his face dark. “ _That_ is a monster.”

John glanced at the creature, it’s leg chained to the table. It looked apprehensively back and forth between them, the sutures dark against its pale flesh.

“It -- he -- can understand us,” John tried again. “Just give it more time--”

“Enough! I’ve made my decision.” Moriarty’s face twisted into an ugly smile. “Look at you, Watson. Taking pity on this abomination, wanting to heal it, wanting to play doctor. I suggest you take a closer look at your own lack of ethics, boy, before you dare judge me.”

John breathed in sharply as the words hit home.

“Now, you will get rid of this _thing_ tonight, or you’ll never see another farthing from me. Is that understood?”

John nodded stiffly, clenching his fists, wanting to beat the bastard senseless.

Moriarty swept out of the laboratory, leaving John and the creature alone. John slowly glanced over to meet the blue-green eyes fixed on him. There was understanding there, intelligence trapped inside a body it could not yet fully control.

John was partially responsible for this, for foisting misery on this half-being. He had to do something, had to atone for his mistakes.

John took a step forward, laid a hand on the creature’s shoulder that was cool to the touch.

“I’m going to help you,” John said, looking into its eyes. “You’ll be safe with me.”


	2. Chapter 2

John rushed into town and stuffed a bag with clothes for himself, nicked a pair of soft trousers and a loose white cotton shirt for the creature from a neighbor's washline, stole tall boots and a hooded black cape from the tavern on the corner. The clothes would hide most of the ominous scars and sutures. He hired a coach to take him back to Moriarty's castle and had it wait while he hurriedly helped the creature to dress.

John glanced anxiously around as they limped up the stairs and out to the carriage. The driver squinted at them suspiciously.

"He's not well," John snapped as he stepped into the coach. "Now go!"

The creature stared out the window at the trees and evening sky rushing by, its hand clenching the leather seat as new sounds and scents and sights flooded its system.

John worriedly chewed the corner of his thumb, hoping the inn he'd selected at the edge of town would provide a safe haven until he could figure out what to do next. Moriarty would be livid when he discovered that John was not coming back, and would be even more enraged if he learned that he'd spared the monster.

Monster. John looked at the creature seated across from him. In this light, covered with clothing, he looked like a young man. A gravely ill young man, but very human, nonetheless.

After an hour's ride they arrived at the inn. The night was dark, the inn bustling, few taking notice of the new arrivals. John paid the coachman and slung his bag over his shoulder, then offered his arm to his apparently ailing companion.

"Just keep your head down," John instructed quietly, hoping the creature would understand him. "I'll get us a room where we can rest."

The creature leaned against a wall in a dark corner, the hood drawn over his head as John chatted with the proprietress, smiling charmingly at her, trying to sweet talk the best deal on a room. He had to make his meager savings last as long as possible.

“What’s the matter with your friend?” the innkeeper asked, jutting her chin toward the creature.

“Oh, just a bit peaky. Travel never agrees with him. I don’t suppose you could send up some broth and a bit of bread? A couple of pints of ale?”

She slid her gaze back to John. “I’ll see what I can do.” She reached under the counter and pulled out a key. “Room number 7, luv.”

John smiled again, then turned away to help his friend negotiate the stairs to the second floor.

“You boys behave, now,” she called after them with a wink.

John’s nerves were raw by the time they reached the room and stumbled safely inside. John immediately locked the door before helping the creature to sit down on the bed.

“How are you feeling?” John crouched down in front of the half-being. He worried that the sutures might give way, that the flesh would decompose -- God knows what other unthinkable things could go awry. “I need to examine you. May I?” John picked up one the creature’s hands and looked at him for permission.

He was met with silence and an impassive gaze. John took that as agreement and gently pushed back the cuff of the shirt to scrutinize the stitches at the wrist. To his relief, the skin and sutures held fast. He swallowed, then moved his hand up to lift back the collar of the shirt to examine the stitches at base of the long neck. They, too, were clean and intact.

Curious, John held two fingers against the pulse point of the creature’s throat. He felt nothing. John closed his eyes, refocused his concentration, waited. There, just barely perceptible, was a faint beat, one, then another, strung far apart. John settled back on his heels and gazed into the unsettling eyes.

“You’re either magic or a scientific miracle,” John said softly. “But what am I going to do with you?”

The creature looked back at him, still silent. It slowly lifted a hand and pressed the fingertips against its lips, then lowered the palm toward John.

John smiled, strangely touched by the gesture. “I’ll take that as a thank you. You’re welcome.”

There was a rap at the door and John stood to answer it, taking the tray of soup and bread and ale from a young kitchen maid.

John set the tray on a small wooden table. “We should eat,” he said, motioning his fingers toward his mouth.

The creature repeated the motion and for a moment, John felt a glimmer of hope.

 

*************

John spent that night with the strangest bed companion of his life. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to lie so close to something not-quite human. The creature lay on its back as if still chained to the laboratory table, barely moving. John curled close to the edge of the bed, fading in and out of sleep, fearful that every thump and scrape in the night was Moriarty.

Sometime before dawn, John woke to find himself facing the body next to him. The creature had turned onto its side during the night, its hands tucked under its chin, eyes closed, seeming to barely breathe. John took the chance to study the planes and angles of the face, wondering who the man had been, where he was from, who he had left behind.

John's gaze returned to the sensuous mouth that was mere inches from his own. The pale lips would be cold to the touch, he imagined. He was tempted to trace them with his fingertip, explore their texture, feel for the subtle exhalation of breath.

If things were different -- very, very different -- if John had seen this face across the street or at the market or in a tavern, he would have found an excuse to brush against the man, start a conversation, buy him a drink, see where it led...

John's eyes went to the stitches that circled the neck, dropped lower to the hint of exposed skin stretched across the sinewy chest. He wanted to touch the body again, wanted to see the scar over the ribs where the heart was slowly beating.

John closed his eyes, trying to tame his irrational thoughts. There was no warmth in the creature's skin, no response to human touch, barely a pulse to quicken. John turned away from the haunting face, not seeing the eyes that opened and lingered on the nape of his neck.

The next few days passed quietly, John and the creature devising a system of rudimentary sign language to communicate at the most basic level. Food. Drink. Go. Wait. Me. You. Sleep.

John went downstairs occasionally to chat with the innkeeper and avoid raising too many suspicions, reporting his friend was slowly improving. On the third evening, John sat alone in the pub nursing a pint of ale, contemplating the odds of successfully stealing two horses and riding through the countryside, sheltering in the woods and barns along the way. But where should they go? A large city? The sparsely populated north? How would they survive? Would the creature ever speak or be able to manage on its own?

John cradled his head in his hand, regret and despair filling his chest.

A shadow fell across the table and John looked up into the steely eyes of a man with a sharp nose and thin lips. He was dressed in a black suit, a gold watch fob glinting in the firelight.

“Your’s is the face of a man with a problem,” the man said in a clipped tone. “Perhaps I can help you.”

John blinked at the stranger. “I don’t think you can.”

The man folded his grey-gloved hands atop the curve of a lacquered umbrella handle. “I’ve heard that your friend is ill. I’ve some experience in these matters.”

“He doesn’t need a doctor,” John replied cautiously.

“I’m not a doctor.” The man stood there, smiling faintly.

“Look, I appreciate the offer, but I really don’t think --”

The man pulled out the chair opposite John and sat down. “I’ll join you, if you don’t mind.” He folded his hands on the table.

John eyed him warily. “What do you want?”

“I want to help you with your problem.”

A thousand warnings rippled through John’s mind. “And why is that, exactly?”

“I believe we may have a mutual interest, Mr. Watson.”

John’s face went pale, but the man continued to speak.

“I’ve been following you for several days. I know your name, that you worked for the professor. I know that you’re traveling with an unusual companion.”

John was speechless, his blood running cold.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” the stranger reassured John. “I merely want to help.”

“How? What can you do?” John asked in a strained voice.

The man casually examined the seams of his gloves. “Do you believe in the old ways, Mr. Watson."

John hesitated. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, I do. Quite firmly. That’s how I found you.”

John glared at him. “Who are you? Why are you saying all this?”

The man leaned forward, his face serious. “I’m here because I believe you may be traveling with someone important to me.” His eyes clouded over for a moment, lost in sadness. “At least, what’s left of him.” His eyes flicked back to John, steely again. “My brother disappeared not long ago, and I’ve been searching for him. Certain signs led me to you.”

“What signs?” John’s voice was sharp, agitated. He wanted to flee but felt trapped.

“I am a practitioner of the old ways,” the man said. “There are so few of us left… My little brother, however, cared more for science. He was a scholar, something of an expert in chemistry. He was also quite reckless, I'm afraid to say. We argued about it all the time…” he sighed, remembering. The man finally returned his gaze to John. “The only proof I can offer you is this: My brother had dark curly hair, prominent cheekbones, changing eyes like the sea. Now will you please take me to him?”

 

***********

John cautiously pushed open the door to the room, the man following behind him. The creature was sitting by the window, staring out through a crack in the curtains.

John shut the door quietly. “I’ve brought a friend,” he said carefully, hoping he wasn't making another terrible mistake.

The creature turned at the sound of John's voice, its eyes roving from John to the stranger.

"This is Mr. -- I don't know your name," John realized.

"Holmes," the man breathed out, barely audible. He took a step forward. "Oh, dear God... " he staggered forward, sinking to his knees, reaching out his hand to his brother. "It's me, Mycroft."

The creature showed no sign of recognition, its eyes going to John for guidance.

"It doesn't -- he doesn't speak," John explained. "I don't know how much he understands."

Mycroft let his hand drop as he took in the shocking sight before him. "Tell me what the professor did. How he did this."

John haltingly explained Moriarty's quest to defy death, the bodies, the lightning, the command to destroy what he deemed a monster. As he spoke, John felt deeply ashamed of his own actions.

"How did my brother die?" Mycroft asked softly.

"I don't know. Moriarty found the body. He never told me."

Mycroft sighed again, gazing at the face he once knew. "Sherlock... I'm so sorry I wasn't there when you needed me most."

 _Sherlock,_ John repeated to himself, turning over the unusual name.

"I've never encountered a half-life such as this. This is dark work," Mycroft continued in a low voice, his eyes going to John as he stood up, “and you must help atone for it."

John glanced away, feeling heavy with the burden placed on him.

“There is nothing I can do to alter his current state. Only time will tell what will happen to him,” Mycroft said regretfully. “But I can offer a safe refuge. Our family has a cottage near the sea. It’s several hours from here, quite isolated. It was our grandmother’s… we used to visit in the summers when we were children. Perhaps it will stir some memories in him.”

Mycroft reached for his pocket watch, pulling it free from his waistcoat. “This watch was our father’s.” He placed it in Sherlock’s palm and closed his fingers around it. “I want you to have this. Perhaps it, too, will help you remember.”

Sherlock examined the timepiece with curiosity, lifting it to his ear. Mycroft gazed at him wistfully, then turned back to John. “I’ll send a coach in the morning to take you to the cottage. I’ll provide an allowance for all the necessities. In exchange, you’ll serve as his guardian and companion. Do you agree to this arrangement?”

John looked past Mycroft at Sherlock, who was running one long finger over the case of the pocket watch, his brow knitted. Maybe he was recalling some dim fragment of his past, maybe he could be freed from his silence one day. John owed him the chance to find out.

John looked back at Mycroft, feeling the invisible ties that bound him to the creature -- to Sherlock -- tightening. “I agree.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to give a little shout-out to the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge organizers and writers. The challenges, which recently ended, motivated me more than once to put fingers to keyboard and write, so thank you! 
> 
> In the meantime, hope you enjoyed Frankenlock so far!


	3. Chapter 3

The cottage was small but tidy, consisting of an open kitchen and sitting area flanked by a bedroom on either side. The house had been stocked with firewood and food and fresh linens, Mycroft somehow sending word in advance of their arrival.

For the first time in weeks, John could breathe a little easier as they settled into the cottage. He watched as Sherlock walked slowly through the rooms, touching a chair or a pattern on a curtain, pausing by a window. He wondered again how much Sherlock remembered, and would give anything to know what was going on inside his head.

A few days later, several large trunks were delivered. One was packed with clothes and coats for the both of them, the other loaded with books -- everything from reading primers to chemistry texts -- pens, ink, paper, several slates, and chalk.

“Looks like I’m to be your tutor,” John said, sifting through the stacks of supplies. It wasn’t a bad idea, actually. If Sherlock could learn to read and write, he could expand his knowledge and communicate, and maybe someday --

Someday what? John wasn’t sure. He glanced up to see Sherlock dragging a piece of chalk across a slate, experimenting with lines. John had grown used to his deathly white skin and stark sutures, his not yet completely fluid movements. To John, he was amazing, fascinating; but to a stranger’s eyes, Sherlock was an oddity, an unsettling freak.

The hell with what everyone else thought. John picked up another slate and piece of chalk. He drew the letter A.

“Let’s practice the alphabet, shall we?”

 

****************

Sherlock turned out to be an unusually swift learner. Either the lessons were reviving buried knowledge or Sherlock was brilliant, maybe a combination of both. He absorbed information rapidly, and he focused intently on training his fingers to hold a pen, making thin strokes and loops, mastering control over his body's fine movements. He was still without a voice, but writing had freed his thoughts to a great extent.

A small part of John watched Sherlock's transformation with medical interest, noting the increase in agility and coordination, the blossoming of intellectual capacity. Perhaps nerves and cells were regenerating or otherwise adapting to their host. Another part of him noticed the new grace to Sherlock's movements, a spark in his eyes that reflected an impatience to do more and know more, a rising interest in exploring the five senses.

He would often see Sherlock smoothing a hand over different textures -- a cool pane of glass, the soft fur of a stray cat, the grit of sand and pebbles on the beach below the cottage. He tasted the salty sea water, sweet sugar, bitter coffee, sniffed at soap and grass and ink, listened to wind and waves and rain, gazed at streaked sunsets and starry nights and flickering flames.

It should not have surprised John when one late afternoon he looked up from the letter he was writing to Mycroft to find Sherlock staring at him. John followed his gaze, trying to understand what Sherlock was seeing.

Sherlock slowly reached out and laid his large hand over John's wrist, wrapping it in a loose hold. John made some small noise of protest, then quelled it, allowing the cold fingers to linger over the bluish-green veins where he could feel John's warmth and pulse.

Sherlock released John's wrist and gradually sat back in his chair. He touched his own wrist, frowning at the contrast. His eyes met John's, a clear question in them. _What am I?_

John looked back at him, no easy answer coming to his mind. "Sherlock," he finally said. "What do you remember?"

Sherlock reached for the chalk and slate always near at hand.

_Fragments. China plates with blue flowers. Patterns in the stars. Music in my head. The sea._

John read the list. "Do you remember your family? Your brother Mycroft?"

Sherlock paused before writing. _A big house. A red dog. Someone coming down the stairs._

John nodded. "I think you'll remember more in time. You're making great progress."

Sherlock scrubbed out the words, wrote new ones, rubbed them out again in agitation. He stood up suddenly, nearly knocking over the chair in his haste to leave the cottage.

"Wait -- Sherlock!" John called after him. He stood and watched through the window as Sherlock strode down the path to the water where he often spent time alone. John sighed and let him go. He sat down heavily in the chair and picked up the pen again to continue the letter to Mycroft. _He has become self-aware. He knows he is different._

Several more weeks passed with Sherlock continuing to make leaps and bounds in his knowledge. His mood seemed more introspective to John, and he would often disappear for hours. John glanced at him furtively from time to time, watching him read a book, his head propped in his hand, or penning a letter to Mycroft, and he would forget, just for a few moments, that he was caught between two worlds.

John stayed up reading one night after Sherlock had retired to his room. John finally stood up to stretch, picked up his empty tea mug, and walked toward the kitchen. As he passed by Sherlock's bedroom, he glanced through the partially open door, catching a movement in the glow of candlelight.

What he saw froze him in place. Sherlock stood shirtless before the looking glass, staring at his own pale reflection. He ran his fingers over the stitches marring his neck, then down to the angry welt sliced through his sternum.

He turned slowly at the waist to catch sight of the crude tattoo on his upper arm. He touched it, almost seeming to caress the image, his fingers sliding down to his elbow, then skimming back to his chest where they trailed lightly over his ribs, up to whisper over his nipples, across the base of his neck again.

John was struck dumb by the sensuality of his movements, shadows playing over the cords of muscle and jut of bones, light gleaming off the curls of dark hair. He took a step forward, not thinking.

Sherlock's eyes flicked up to the mirror and locked on John standing in the doorway. They stared at each other in the reflection, time suspended. A decision washed over John, more emotion than logic. He took another step, placed the mug on the top of wooden dresser, still holding Sherlock's gaze.

His feet carried him forward until he stood behind Sherlock. He did not think beyond instinct, did not question his own actions as he pulled the tails of his shirt from his trousers and worked the cloth up and over his shoulders, letting it dangle from one hand before dropping it wordlessly to the floor. His breath was shallow as Sherlock turned to face him with a questioning look.

John reached for Sherlock's hand, lifted it to his chest. He would let Sherlock explore his body the way he had been touching his own, let him see how they were alike and different. John felt he owed Sherlock this, having studied and stitched his form inch by inch in the laboratory. He would be the experiment now, the sample under the microscope of Sherlock's fingertips.

Sherlock seemed to understand John's intent, gliding his palm down John's bare chest, taking in the bristle of hair and slope of muscle. His other hand joined in the mapping of throat and shoulders, the taper of waist, the dip at the small of the back, the ridge of spine and wings of shoulder blades, the soft nape of neck.

John inhaled deeply as Sherlock touched him, his eyes closing under the exploratory strokes, shivering slightly at the cool fingers brushing over sensitive skin. He could feel himself hardening in response, his pulse increasing. He breathed in again, willing his arms to stay at his sides.

There were fingertips at his temples, a gentle tracing over his cheeks and nose, a trailing over his lips. He opened his eyes, a stormy blue gaze meeting his own.

John saw want there, a bold curiosity that compelled him to take Sherlock's hand again and place it over the bulge in his trousers. Sherlock curled his fingers, watching John's face as he responded to his touch.

Sherlock didn't hesitate, unbuttoning John's trousers and drawing out his cock, closing his palm around it. A small moan escaped from John's lips as Sherlock stroked him once, twice, feeling the weight of John's prick shift and grow in his hand.

"That's good," John breathed out huskily. "It feels good." He could no longer resist touching Sherlock, his hands drifting to his waist.

Sherlock pushed at John's trousers, wanting them off, and John helped, kicking them away from his legs and peeling off his socks until he stood completely naked in the candlelight. Sherlock moved closer again, running his palms over the mounds of John's arse, curving his fingers under the crease of his buttocks, smoothing his hands around to the front of his thighs, testing the firmness beneath his grip.

John nudged his hips into Sherlock's, craving his touch, feeling a hardness where the tip of his cock brushed against Sherlock's groin. So he could be aroused, John noted hazily, sinking into the fog of a hand sliding between his legs, cradling his balls, a thumb roaming over them before a cool palm wrapped around his cock again.

John's hands rested on Sherlock's waist as he let himself be worked into a moaning wreck, not caring that Sherlock was studying his intimate expressions, his every sigh and quiver, his open abandonment as he rutted into Sherlock’s fist, clutching at his hips until his breath caught and staggered, cum surging onto their bare skin in hot, creamy spurts.

John gasped at the release, at the white fingers coaxing out the last drops. He looked on in wonder as Sherlock dipped a finger into the milky fluid streaked across his abdomen, lifting the fingertip to his mouth. Sherlock closed his lips around it, watching John watch him taste and suck it clean.

John sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, lightheaded. Sherlock sat down next to him, pushing him back onto the mattress, lying down beside him.

"Should I stay here tonight?" John asked softly.

Sherlock nodded, slowly tracing four letters onto John's chest with his finger: W A R M

 

********************

The slate was thrust under John's nose the next afternoon as he sat making a list of supplies he needed to buy in the village a half-hour walk away.

"All right, hang on," John took the slate, moving it to where he could read it.

_Come swimming with me._

"Swimming? The water's freezing, isn't it?"

Sherlock pointed at the request again, impatient.

"Fine, fine. Let me get a few things first."

They soon made their way down to the rocky beach set in an alcove that calmed the largest waves. They peeled off all their clothing, leaving it in two piles next to towels and a wool blanket laid out well above the water line.

Sherlock dove in first while John picked his way in, muttering about the cold. John yelped when a hand shot up and pulled him into the water by the wrist. He emerged spluttering and cursing, wiping the salty sting from his eyes. He treaded water, looking for the culprit.

He spied Sherlock a few yards away, grinning devilishly. John swam quickly over to him, dunking him in retaliation. John felt a tug on his leg, and he went under again. They both popped up, laughing, wrestling wet and glistening, finally tiring, floating back toward the shore. They stopped in the shallower water, just able to touch the sandy bottom with their toes, bobbing in the gentle waves.

John smiled at Sherlock, remembering last night, crossing over into something new and unknown, somewhere that didn't require speech or reason. He reached out to Sherlock now, drawing him closer by the shoulders, pressing their chests and legs together. Covered by water like this, no one could see the scars segmenting Sherlock's body, no one would know their equally cold skin was normally vastly different in temperature.

John didn't care about the differences. He stroked his thumb along Sherlock's jaw and wrapped a leg around Sherlock's calves before sliding a hand behind his neck, pulling him down to his mouth. Sherlock's lips were surprisingly soft, the tang of brine and the roar of waves filling John's senses as they kissed, chilled and half floating, buoyed by the water.

He wanted it to last forever, their mouths roving, lashes dotted with droplets, wet hair dripping onto necks and shoulders, gazes meeting briefly before finding lips and teasing tongues again.  
But John was growing uncomfortably cold, his muscles starting to ache. He pulled back.

"I'm freezing," he reluctantly admitted.

Sherlock nodded and they swam to the beach. John grabbed a towel, briskly rubbing his arms and legs and hair before quickly dressing. He wrapped himself in the blanket, watching Sherlock dry himself more slowly, not as bothered by the chill. He draped the towel over his shoulders, pulled on his trousers, and sat next to John.

John leaned closer to him, almost forgetting there was no body heat to share. "Can I ask... " he started awkwardly. "You feel… pleasure, yes?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked at one corner and he nodded.

"Do you remember from before -- being with anyone?"

Sherlock seemed to drift away for a moment, thinking. He wrote a reply in the damp sand with his finger. _Yes. And you?_

This time John smiled. "I might remember a time or two." He grew more serious, looked into Sherlock's eyes. "The way you touched me last night... I want to give you that, bring you pleasure tonight." He slid his hand up Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock looked back at him as if weighing several possibilities. He answered by leaning down and covering John's mouth with a soft kiss that tapered off with a voiceless mouthing of the word _yes_.

Later, in Sherlock’s bedroom, legs tangled in the shadows, fingers traced over tendons and stitches, mouths found notches and hollows in damp and salty skin, silent moans of ecstasy rippled into the inky folds of the dark.


	4. Chapter 4

John woke to find Sherlock gazing at him, a bluish light seeping through the windows. He turned so that their shins touched.

“Come with me to the village today,” he said lazily, moving his toes along Sherlock’s foot.

Sherlock’s expression clouded and he shook his head no.

“Come on, it won’t take long.”

Sherlock shook his head again. Reaching for the slate that was nearby, he wrote out a few quick sentences: _I have met others while walking. They feared me._

John tried to play down his concerns. "I'm sure it'll be fine. You can't stay hidden here forever."

Sherlock toyed with the chalk, thinking, then wrote again, turning the slate so John could see it.

_Why do you stay with me?_

The directness of the question caught John off guard. He struggled with several answers: Because it’s my duty. Because I promised your brother. He finally settled on the simple truth. “Because I want to.”

_I will only bring you trouble._

“That’s not true.”

_The outside world sees me as a monster._

“You are _not_ a monster,” John said vehemently.

Sherlock wrote again, then looked at him somberly. _I am not quite human, either._

John let out a frustrated sigh, his eyes roaming away from Sherlock. They landed on the collection of sea glass in a jar set on the bedside table. He picked it up, held it in the first rays of light so that the greens and blues and ambers glowed from within.

“This all started out as broken bottles. Useless shards of glass. But the sea transformed it into something rare and beautiful.” He met Sherlock’s gaze. “Just as lightning transformed you.”

Sherlock glanced away, a faint smile playing on his lips as he wiped the slate clean and wrote a new sentence. _You're a romantic._

John pressed a kiss against his neck, just above the chain of stitches. "You're rare and beautiful."

 

************************

John shifted his eyes uneasily, regretting his insistence that Sherlock accompany him to the village. It was market day, busy and bustling, but it didn’t prevent people from stopping and staring at the tall, pale stranger who stood out among the ruddy-faced farmers and stocky merchants.

John watched mothers pull their children tight against their skirts and people draw back into doorways as Sherlock passed, his face and eyes set like stone. John heard whispered words:  _upir, unholy._ A man spat at them, muttering curses under his breath.

John guided Sherlock into an alcove along a side street. “I think it would -- you should--” he stumbled over his words, trying to find the right phrase. “You should go back. I'm sorry. You were right."

John saw a muscle twitch in Sherlock’s jaw before he gave a curt nod and adjusted the cloak that hid the scars around his neck.

There were some traits that Sherlock could not hide, John realized. His unsettling eyes and pallor, an ethereal demeanor that hinted of some strange magic.

John noticed Sherlock’s gaze flick past him and settle on something down the street. John turned to see a raven-haired woman in a ruby red dress looking directly at them. A knowing smile flitted across her face before she picked up her skirts and walked toward them.

"You're the pale one I've been hearing about," she said to Sherlock, looking him over at her leisure. She glanced at John. "And you're the companion."

John bristled, disliking her manner. She held a up a hand to silence any outburst. "I'd like to help you both."

Her words instantly brought to mind his first encounter with Mycroft. He regarded her carefully. "How, exactly?"

"A cup of tea, a place to rest. Maybe bringing his voice back?" She smiled again, a bit smugly, John thought.

Sherlock studied her face, then glanced at John.

"You practice the old ways?" John asked.

"Among other things, yes." She gazed pointedly at Sherlock, one hand on her hip. "I might be just what you need."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John's mouth tightened.

She grinned at their reactions. "I'm a necromancer. Now, come along. Let's go chat with the dead."

As she led them down the street, she tucked her arm through Sherlock's, leaving John to trail slightly behind them. John gritted his teeth, hoping again they were doing the right thing by trusting this woman.

They stopped at a simple whitewashed building and climbed the stairs to a series of quiet rooms set back from the street. The woman had them sit while she removed her shawl and locked the door.

"I've been watching for you," she said, smoothing her hair back into place, looking at Sherlock. "I heard rumors, and just today I received a note from your big brother asking if I might apply my skills."

Of course Mycroft was involved, John thought. There was probably a similar letter waiting for them at the cottage. "And who are you?" John asked impatiently.

"Miss Irene Adler," she answered. "Ah, and here's my assistant, Molly."

A young woman with brown hair gathered into a loose bun emerged from a back room and greeted them shyly. "Hello."

"Be a dear and put the kettle on, won't you?” Irene asked Molly. “Mr. Holmes and I have some business to attend to. Keep Mr. Watson entertained while he waits." She stood up and held her hand out to Sherlock, which he hesitantly took. She pulled him to his feet and led him to another room and shut the door, John staring after them in dismay.

"Oh, don't worry. He'll be fine," Molly assured John, steering him to the small kitchen.

"What will she do?"

Molly fussed with the kettle. "Communicate with those on the other side, try to find a way to get his voice back. I've never met anyone like him, put together from so many... well, you know...."

John let her comment pass. "Do you communicate with the dead, too?"

"I'm still learning. I'm a bit of a novice."

John glanced back uneasily at the closed door. "And how is it that you and Miss Adler just happen to live in this particular village?"

Molly arranged the cups and saucers as she spoke. "We're drawn to places to assist the living with the dead. There's an energy. With the two of you, it's quite strong.” She looked up at John with a little smile. "Anyway, we travel a lot. We were in Paris last month. Lovely city. So many spirits in a place like that."

The day dragged on, measured out in several cups of tea, restless pacing, staring out the window, and making small talk with Molly about spirits and souls and energy. What once would have sent chills down John's spine now seemed commonplace.

John eventually dozed in an arm chair, the rattle of a doorknob making him instantly sit upright.

Irene walked out, rubbing her neck. "That was exhausting. I've never communed with so many spirits at one time that had so much to say. But I believe we have it sorted out."

John perched on the edge of his chair. “What do you mean, sorted out?”

She hesitated as if thinking of the easiest way to explain. “His body holds many memories from several lives,” she said. “Mr. Holmes’ spirit is the strongest, the most defined, but he has experienced great trauma, preventing him from speaking and remembering completely.”

John clasped his hands together silently, thinking that being brought back from the dead qualified as more than traumatic.

“Vying with his own true memories are whispers and fragments from the others,” she continued. “I spoke with them, helped them find peace, although each may leave a small trace of themselves in some fashion.”

John stood up. "Can I see him now?"

"He's resting, but by all means, join him," Irene crossed over to Molly, slipped an arm around her waist, dipped her mouth to her lips, causing Molly’s cheeks to flush. Irene gave John a sidelong glance, her fingers playing with the lace at Molly’s neck. "You might as well plan on staying here for the night, Mr. Watson. Molly and I don't mind sharing a room. I think you're going to find the sound of his voice most pleasing."

John paused, needing a moment to process Irene's intriguing actions and words, then rushed toward the now unlocked door.

 

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Sherlock lay on his side on top of the bed covers, fully clothed, the top few buttons of his shirt undone. He breathed in, then out, trying to find a calm center after the tumultuous day. The constant hum of voices and tangle of memories had receded, leaving behind an unfamiliar silence.

He heard the door open and close softly, felt John’s eyes search for him in the dim candlelight. After a moment John walked to the bed and slowly lowered himself to sit on the mattress. Sherlock breathed in and out once more, finally opening his eyes.

John waited breathlessly, his face full of concern. Sherlock's mouth curved up in a tired smile, happy to see the one reassuring constant that had been with him ever since he'd awakened terrified on the lab table. "John." His voice was deep, a bit rough from disuse. "I've been wanting to say that for a long time."

John slid forward wordlessly, wrapping his body around Sherlock's, kissing the corner of his mouth. "Are you all right?" he asked softly.

"John," Sherlock repeated, gripping John's arms, pulling back to see his face. "I remember. I remember so much now."

John stroked his fingers over Sherlock's cheek. "I'm glad for you."

Sherlock shook his head, feeling overwhelmed. "I don't know what to do with all these memories. It's too much."

John let his fingertips rest at the base of Sherlock's throat where his collar was undone. "We have time. We have all night to talk."

"I don't want to talk. There have been too many voices in my head for too long. I don’t want to think. I just want to touch you." He pulled John closer, working his hands under his shirt, craving his familiar warmth. "I want your skin against mine," Sherlock murmured, finding the power in his voice again, relishing the words he could finally speak out loud.

"Tell me what else you want," John whispered hoarsely in return, "and I'll do it."

"I want us out of these clothes,“ Sherlock skimmed his lips along John's jaw, tracing his fingers up his spine, causing John to shiver. He led the unbuttoning of shirts, slipping arms from sleeves, freeing legs from trousers, hands quickly returning to their explorations. “I want your mouth on my neck.... my chest… my stomach...."

John granted each request, working his way down Sherlock's torso, tenderly kissing the scar in the middle of his chest, mouthing the taut skin of his flat belly.

Sherlock carded his fingers through John’s hair, traced the shell of his ears as John shifted to nestle himself between Sherlock's thighs.

"Run your hands over my hips…”

John’s hands roamed, his thumbs gliding over sharp hipbones.

“Hold my arse in your hands…”

John’s palms cupped firm buttocks, his fingers pressing into dense muscle, his lips sliding down lean, white flanks.

“The inside of my thighs… bite them… oh, God, yes…I remember that..." Sherlock heard his own voice rolling like slow thunder, caught in a trance of skin and sensation and sound as John’s teeth nipped into his soft flesh. Sherlock inhaled deeply, his back arching slightly.

“Grasp my prick in your hand, roll your tongue around the tip…”

John willingly obeyed, the top of his head dark between Sherlock’s flexing thighs.

“Take me in your mouth… deeper…”

John did as he asked, tightening his fingers around the base of Sherlock’s cock as his mouth slid down.

“Hold me there… ahh, the heat feels so good…” He luxuriated in the warmth surrounding his cock, his toes curling as a trickle of saliva rolled down his shaft. “Now pull up slowly... Christ, yes… like that…” Sherlock’s hand gripped the back of John’s skull.

“Do it again… go down…” John’s mouth sank down his slick cock, his tongue pressing flat, then pulled up, his lips forming a seal around the ridge of the head, sucking, releasing, dipping again, driving Sherlock into groans of pleasure, forgetting everything but the present moment.

Sherlock finally managed to speak. “Let me touch you… I want both of us in my hand.”

John uncoiled his body to lay alongside Sherlock, their stiff cocks soon straining within the circle of Sherlock’s long fingers, hips rutting, mouths tangling.

In the adjoining room, Irene and Molly exchanged a knowing glance at the sound of the rhythmically squeaking bed frame audible through the wall.

Irene slowly undid the ties from Molly’s black bodice, releasing creamy breasts tipped with dusky nipples. Irene sighed with deep satisfaction as she lowered her mouth to the lush peaks, ragged breaths and muffled moans floating from the room next door.


	5. Chapter 5

The memories continued to return in bursts, often causing Sherlock to stop mid-task or mid-sentence to process them. He would catch sight of something -- his father's pocket watch, for instance -- and suddenly remember seeing his father polishing the case in his book-lined study when he was a child.

He would often tell John about the good memories -- the summers at the cottage, Christmas dinners, long debates with Mycroft -- but kept the bad ones to himself, going silent when he recalled something unpleasant.

The ease with which he could finally communicate was a pleasure, and John would often let him ramble on, just smiling at the sound of his voice. The world seemed clearer to Sherlock, a faint fog dissipated, but there were still gaps in his memory, occasional broken links in a chain. Despite the missing pieces, he felt more complete, more aware.

One morning over breakfast he caught John squinting at him with a peculiar look.

“What?” Sherlock asked, suspicious.

“Maybe it’s just a trick of the light, but I swear the color of your skin has warmed the slightest bit,” John said. “Sit still; I’m going to take your pulse.”

Sherlock watched carefully as John timed his pulse at his wrist. "Well?” he asked once John had finished.

“Strange,” John replied. “Your heart rate heart has increased, and your pulse is stronger. And yet you barely eat a thing.”

“Eating is boring,” Sherlock grumbled, rolling down his sleeve. Food was becoming slightly more appealing, but he needed very little to subsist. He turned his attention to John again, gazing at him over his cup of tea. “You gave up your studies to be with me," he finally said. "You should return to school. Become a doctor like you wanted to."

John pushed at the toast on his plate, then gave a dismissive shrug. “That feels like it was a million years ago. It doesn't matter anymore."

"But you have a gift."

"Then by that same token,” John countered, “you should continue studying chemistry.”

Sherlock made a scoffing noise, then avoided meeting John’s eyes as he spoke. “I spent far too much time studying the effects of various drugs on my own physiology. Any talent I had went up in smoke or into my veins. Mycroft was very disappointed in me. Deservedly so."

"I think he cares a great deal about you," John ventured.

"I know." Sherlock stood and looked out the window toward the sea. "I always found him insufferably old-fashioned, mired in the old ways... Now look at me. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for magic."

John examined the lines criss-crossing his own palms, finally looking up to ask a question, his expression serious. “Do you ever wish that you hadn't been brought back?”

Sherlock kept his face turned to the window. “Sometimes.”

John swallowed nervously. "I understand if you resent me for my part in all this. I was selfish, blinded by ambition --"

"You've given me a second chance," Sherlock interrupted softly. "I wasn't a very good man before. I was careless, thoughtless... generally an arrogant bastard. I can see that in hindsight. And I doubt I'll ever amount to much good in this life, either, such as it is. But maybe there's some sort of redemption to be found."

John gazed at him, taking in his words. "I’d like to believe there is." He stood and went to Sherlock, slipping his arms around his waist. “You’re not alone, you know.”

They stood together, wrapped in a thoughtful silence. The sudden crash of glass shattering caused them both to whirl around in time to see a heavy stone land on the floor. The rock had been hurled through the opposite window, three words scrawled on the rough surface in an ugly script: _leave here freak_

Sherlock stared at it, his stomach tightening. John’s face darkened with rage as he snatched up the stone, stormed to the door, throwing it open and charging outside, scanning for whoever had done this.

“Dammit,” he seethed. “You fucking cowards!” he bellowed into the emptiness, hurling the rock into a copse of trees.

Sherlock could see John’s hands shaking with anger as he turned back to the house. Sherlock slipped back into the shadows, trying to keep his face an impassive mask, trying not to show the dread he felt.

 

********************

There were hands grabbing at his legs, and he thrashed, trying to kick them away. He couldn’t breathe, his lungs burned, a horrible gasping sound filled his ears.

Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed, his chest heaving, panicked. He felt John’s hands reaching for him, trying to calm him.

“It was a dream. A nightmare,” John soothed. “You’re safe.”

Sherlock gulped for air, a cold sweat dampening his forehead. “That was not a dream. It was a memory.”

John rubbed his back. “Of what?”

“Of how I died.”

John’s hand came to a stop. “Oh...” He moved his hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, his voice gentle. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Sherlock took a deep breath, the images crystal clear in his mind. “It was night, I was walking back home after a long evening out. I’d taken something… a drug that made me feel hazy, removed from everything. I was walking down a dark street I’d traveled hundreds of times before, and a man… a man with black hair and intense eyes stopped me… there was something in his hand that glinted, and he smiled -- a soft smile, but his teeth were sharp-looking, like a wolf’s -- then there was a flash and pain--” Sherlock stopped, his hand going to his chest. “He stabbed me, murdered me in an alley. The last thing I remember seeing was my own blood seeping between the cobblestones.”

John went pale, bit his lower lip. "He needed a last part for the experiment,” his voice was a reluctant whisper. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was the professor,” Sherlock breathed, the memories falling into place. “Of course… He must have stalked me for days, cornering me at a vulnerable moment. But why did he choose me?”

John shook his head helplessly. “He wanted perfection. Youth, beauty, intelligence...”

“A weak target,” Sherlock finished. He wiped his hand over his mouth. “I was so stupid, so easy to kill.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

Anger slowly seeped into Sherlock's veins, replacing the fear. “And still, after dragging me through hell and back, I wasn’t good enough for Moriarty. He wanted me dead again,” he said bitterly.

John was silent, knowing there was nothing he could say.

Sherlock’s expression was dark, his voice even darker when he spoke. “Perhaps I should go visit my creator.”

John nearly choked. “What? No! Are you mad?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He slipped out from under John’s hand and got out of bed, threw on his clothes.

John stared after him. “Where are you going?”

“Out.”

“You can’t just --” John started to protest, but Sherlock cut him off with the slam of the front door.

Sherlock roamed aimlessly, pacing the beach, wandering among the trees, staring up at the distant stars, wondering where he belonged. He finally returned to the cottage just before dawn. He stood by the kitchen table, exhausted, empty, glancing up when he heard John’s bare feet padding against the cold floor, a blanket thrown around his shoulders.

John said nothing, simply taking Sherlock by the hand and leading him to the warm bed. He wrapped around Sherlock, his chest pressed to his back. Sherlock’s body was cold, his hair filled with the scents of earth and sea and night air.

“You idiot,” John chided him gently.

Sherlock grunted, partly insulted, mildly amused, mostly asleep.

 

***************************

The next afternoon there was a soft knock at the door. Sherlock hovered in the background as John opened it cautiously, prepared for the worst. Instead, they were pleasantly surprised to find Molly on the doorstep.

“Hello,” she said brightly.

“Hello,” John replied. "How did you know where -- never mind. Please, come in.”

Sherlock saw her eyes linger on the boarded up window, but she didn’t mention it as she stepped inside.

“What a lovely little house,” she said instead, looking around the cottage. She suddenly seemed to remember why she'd come. “Miss Adler asked me to stop by,” she explained. “I have a message. Several messages actually.”

“Well, then, we’d better have a seat. Tea, first?” John offered.

“No, thank you.” Molly sat in a chair and folded her hands. “I have bad news, I’m afraid. In the village, three children have died of fever. People are upset and grieving. They’re blaming evil spirits.” She flicked her eyes to Sherlock. “Some are saying it’s the work of the pale stranger.”

Sherlock looked away, but not before seeing John’s hands tighten on the arms of his chair. They both knew the rock thrown through the window was just the beginning of coming trouble.

“Miss Adler and I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay here. We’ll be moving on soon, too. But we wanted to give you this.” She held out an envelope to Sherlock. “It’s an address in London. There’s a house with rooms to let, run by a woman we know. She can be trusted.”

“London?” John repeated numbly as Sherlock took the envelope from Molly.

Molly nodded. “In our experience, large cities are so much more accepting. There’s loads of people, all sorts of types. Being a bit odd is hardly noticeable, really.”

Sherlock and John exchanged glances.

John hesitated. “We need some time to think about it.”

“There isn’t time. We should go,” Sherlock said firmly.

Molly looked back and forth between them. “Miss Adler and I were hoping you’d say yes, so we took the liberty of purchasing two horses for you. I can have them sent here tomorrow morning. We thought it might be difficult for you to find transportation, considering everything…”

Sherlock noticed John’s eyebrows rising at the speed that plans were being made, but he knew this was inevitable. “I’m assuming my brother will provide payment for them?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, yes, that’s all been arranged.”

“Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock said. “You and Miss Adler have been very kind.”

She smiled, flattered. “It’s the least we can do. We need to watch out for each other, there’s so few of us who know the old ways.” She rose from her chair. “I should go now, before it gets dark.”

John stood up as well, concerned. “Will you be all right, walking back by yourself?”

“I’ll be fine. I know where to hurt someone if I need to.”

John grinned. “I don’t doubt you do. And thank you,” he said again as he opened the door for her. “Come look us up in London.”

“We’ll do that,” Molly smiled once more. “Good luck.”

John shut the door and turned back to Sherlock, who had pried open the envelope and was reading the sheet of paper tucked inside.

“Well, where are we going?” John asked, resignation in his voice.

“You’re going to 221B Baker Street.” Sherlock folded the paper in half and handed it to John. “I’m going to visit my brother and attend to some business. I’ll join you later.”

John stilled, looking at Sherlock carefully. “Business?” he repeated doubtfully. “This is about Moriarty, isn’t it?”

Sherlock didn’t answer, and John pressed on. “Do you really think that’s wise, going there alone?”

Sherlock returned his gaze, a hard glint in his eyes. “Yes, I do. And you’re not coming.”

“Then you’re not going.”

They locked eyes, neither willing to back down.

Sherlock finally exhaled, looking away first. “You can’t protect me forever, John. You don’t have to. Take care of yourself first. Go to London, get things settled, and I’ll find you.”

The muscle in John’s jaw clenched, his left hand hardening into a fist. He looked down suddenly, blinking rapidly. “Fine,” his voice cracked with repressed anger, “if that’s how you want it.”

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, coming close, placing his hands on John’s arms. “It’s what I need to do. Alone.”

They spent the rest of the day packing and closing up the cottage, speaking very little. It was late by the time they went to bed. This time Sherlock was the one who held John, kissing the top of his shoulder in a silent apology.

John relented and turned to face Sherlock, his fingers tracing the stitches at the base of his neck.

“You sewed all the sutures but those,” Sherlock said, reading John’s thoughts.

“How did you know?” John asked, a bit surprised.

“You’re left handed, so there’s a distinct slant to the stitches. Plus yours are more delicate, evenly spaced. Moriarty’s lack finesse. I’ve had quite a bit of time to study every detail.”

John’s fingertips went to Sherlock’s sternum, touching the scar marking where he’d cracked open his chest to carefully remove one heart and replace it with another. “I’ve held your heart in my hands,” he said in wonderment. “I never imagined you’d hold mine the way you do now.” He stopped, a blush coloring his cheeks.

John's words stirred something unexpected within Sherlock, and he melted against John, burying his face in his neck.

“If I had to go through all this to find you, then it was worth it,” Sherlock murmured against John’s skin.

They stayed like that a long while, breathing each other in, fingertips making small circles against backs, mouths meeting in short, uncertain kisses, knowing they’d be apart after tonight. Would it be better to part sweetly, simply holding each other in sleep, or ravenously, devouring every possible molecule and moment together?

John decided for them. He rolled on top of Sherlock, their pelvises pressed hard together. He dipped his mouth down, trailed his lips across Sherlock’s jaw as he moved his hips, grinding slowly.

Sherlock’s breath quickened, a sharp inhale, his hands rising up to grasp John’s arse.

“Do you want me?” John murmured near Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered hoarsely, willingly pinned beneath John, lost in the friction of cock against cock, the contrast of warm flesh on cool, hips rolling, tongues sliding, wet mouths smearing. They ground and bucked in a languid tempo, clasping at shoulders and hips and hair, anchoring and opening to each other.

"When you get to London," John whispered, their lips brushing, his hand curling around Sherlock's prick, squeezing the head, coaxing out a slick translucent drop, "I'm going to do things to you you'll never forget."

Sherlock's jaw moved, trying to form a clever retort and failing, something closer to a whimper slipping out. "Is that a promise?"

John smiled down at him, his fingers working a primitive magic. “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come next week! One word hint: Mycroft.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock rode along the little-used trail, the hood of his dark cloak pulled up to hide his face as much as possible. He was tired after several days of furtive travel, avoiding towns, sleeping rough.

He tried not to think about John, about their final hard embrace before they headed separate ways. There were things he had to do, he reminded himself, questions that needed answers.

His first stop was not far now. He would reach his family's estate before nightfall. Mycroft would know he was coming, just as he’d always known practically everything. It used to drive Sherlock mad.

Sherlock had tried in vain to avoid Mycroft’s uncanny gift of knowing exactly when he got himself into trouble. It didn’t work. There were endless letters of reprimand, somber visits, dour head shakes of disapproval. Mycroft had filled the role of parent ever since their mother and father had died when Sherlock was still a boy.

And yet, he remembered a flicker of Mycroft’s face at the inn, his eyes sorrowful, his voice kind. Mycroft had found him, had made sure he was in safe hands with John, had arranged so many things. He really ought to try to be a better brother to Mycroft, Sherlock mused.

Within the hour a familiar outline of trees and stone walls took shape, a long lane leading up to the grand house he hadn't seen in years. Sherlock reined in his horse, taking a moment to let a flood of memories wash over him. Running on the lawn with his dog, nearly falling asleep at the table at formal dinners, his mother's hand smoothing back the curls from his forehead, two black headstones and rain and the sickeningly sweet scent of lilies.

He shook himself from his reverie and continued up the lane. He saw the heavy wooden door open, a figure outlined against a rectangle of light, a sharp-nosed profile. He couldn't help but smile as he drew near.

Mycroft looked up at him as a stable hand came running to take the horse by the bridle.

"Welcome home, Brother.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock bowed his head solemnly, then grinned mischievously. “You’ve put on weight.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows went up, startled, then lowered in exasperation. “I might have known the first words from your mouth would be smart ones.” He sniffed delicately. “Although I will admit it’s good to hear your voice again. You met with Miss Adler, I presume.”

“Yes, she was quite helpful.” Sherlock swung off the horse and untied a leather satchel from behind the saddle.

“Good.” Mycroft waited for Sherlock to join him at the top of the steps as the servant led the horse to the stable. His eyes traveled over Sherlock in cool appraisal. “Considering everything, you look well enough.”

“Am I supposed to say thank you to that?” Sherlock asked, pulling off his gloves.

‘You could,” Mycroft answered breezily, leading them into the hallway. “Tea?”

Sherlock followed, glancing around them as they walked, sketchy outlines of memories filling in fully with colors and textures. “Nothing has changed,” he realized as they made their way to a cozy parlor.

“Why should it?” Mycroft asked, sitting down. He lifted the teapot and poured two cups.

“I don’t know… I just thought..." Sherlock sat across from Mycroft and took the cup and saucer he was offered. _China plates with blue flowers._ One of his earliest memories rushed back at him, and he froze in place. The china set was still intact. The world hadn’t altered one bit since his death and unnatural resurrection. It had gone on without him, sunrise and sunset, tides in and out, tea after tea, with or without Sherlock Holmes. He suddenly felt very humbled.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely, lifting his eyes to Mycroft’s, “for not giving up on me.”

Mycroft nodded slightly. “You’re welcome.” He stirred sugar into his cup slowly. “Tell me, what was it like, when I first saw you at the inn? Did you know me?”

Sherlock thought back, trying to piece together a memory from that time. “It was like -- like looking through a smudged window from underwater. Distorted. I can remember it now, but at the time, no, I didn’t know you.”

They talked more about his gradual acclimation to the world, the push and pull of the other spirits, the return of his own voice. There was no avoiding the topic of the distrust of the villagers, the rock hurled through the window, the plan to move to London in hopes of drawing less attention.

“And Mr. Watson is in favor of this plan?” Mycroft asked innocently, biting into a pale pink macaron.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “What are you angling at?”

“Well, I simply wondered, now that you’re in command of all your faculties, if Mr. Watson is, how shall we say, necessary…?”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft evenly. “He’s my doctor.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “Are you in need of a doctor?”

Sherlock didn’t blink. “Constantly.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth lifted incrementally. “I see. Then perhaps we should ensure that he finishes his medical degree properly in London. I’ll look into the arrangements.” He dabbed at his lips with a linen napkin. “And you? What will you do next?”

Sherlock looked down into his tea. “I’m going to visit an old friend. And if I survive that, who knows?" He attempted to keep his tone light, but Mycroft looked at him closely.

"That’s a rather cryptic comment,” Mycroft said.

"Is it?”

"Please, Sherlock, you know you can't hide things from me."

"Then don't go looking," Sherlock retorted.

Mycroft pressed his lips together in a tight line. "There's a darkness in you I've never felt before. You're not telling me something."

Sherlock stood up and paced the room. "What would you do if you had the chance to confront someone who did the unforgivable to you? Someone who destroyed you not once, but twice?"

He took a step nearer, seized with the urged to confess everything. "Moriarty didn't simply steal my corpse. He murdered me in cold blood to take what he wanted. Did you know that?" His voice was low, nearly hissing the words.

Mycroft remained motionless. "I didn’t know,” he said, his tone defeated.

"What if you simply wanted to know _why?"_

Mycroft worried his thumb along the handle of his tea cup. “You've always been determined to do what you want. I can't stop you. But I can caution you. Knowing the truth may be worse than ignorance."

"I'm not a child, Mycroft," Sherlock snarled.

"No, you're not." He placed the cup and saucer back on the table, his face somber. "Only you know what you hope to find. I won't interfere."

Sherlock ran an agitated hand through his hair. He didn't know whether that was the answer he wanted or not. Maybe, deep down, he was hoping Mycroft would try to stop him.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. "It's late. Why don't you get some sleep? I had your old room made up. The fire's going so it'll be warm."

Sherlock's shoulders went slack at the thought of a soft bed and warm embers in the grate. He was drained, the sutures ached. He nodded.

"We’ll talk again in the morning." Mycroft stood and subtly propelled Sherlock toward the staircase. "Good night, Sherlock."

 

*****************

Sherlock slept deeply in the enormous four-poster bed, relishing the fine sheets and plump pillows. He woke, almost forgetting his situation, almost convinced he was merely at home for a visit, until he shifted under the down comforter and caught sight of the black stitches ringing his wrists. Grim reality rushed back and his spirits sank.

He suddenly yearned for John. He missed feeling his arms around him, missed kissing the back of his neck. But he couldn’t drag him into this. This was his own battle to fight.

He finally rose and dressed, then went downstairs to find Mycroft in the breakfast room.

“Ah, good morning,” Mycroft said, folding his newspaper in half. He was smartly dressed in riding clothes, his tall boots polished to a gleam.

Sherlock mumbled a vague reply, filling a plate with a smattering of food.

“Today,” Mycroft announced, “I’d like you to come riding with me. Just around the property like we used to.”

Sherlock looked at him from across the table with a small smirk. “You’re getting nostalgic.”

Mycroft sighed, pushing the paper away. “Indulge me.”

They spent the day riding and talking about old times, sparking more memories in Sherlock. They studiously avoided any talk of Moriarty or the future.

When they returned in the afternoon, Mycroft retired to his study to attend to whatever mysterious business he conducted. Sherlock prowled through the house, lifting down books from the library shelves, slipping into his parents’ old bedroom, gazing at portraits of long-forgotten relatives.

Several rooms remained locked, just as they always had. Once his mother’s special rooms, they were now Mycroft’s, spaces devoted to the old ways. His mother had the gift, as did Mycroft. His father was kind, an avid reader, but ordinary. Sherlock was never sure if he had been born with any traces of magic or not.

Back in his own room, he glanced into the mirror in the waning light of the day, staring at his pale reflection. He was certainly not ordinary now, he thought ruefully. He turned away, jamming his hands discontentedly into his trouser pockets. His fingers brushed against something smooth and cool.

He grasped the object with his fingers and pulled it from his pocket, raising it into the light. A green stone caught the last rays of the sun and glowed in his hand. It was an oval piece of sea glass. John must have slipped it into his pocket as a memento when they parted, a touchstone of reassurance. John’s voice came back to him. _You’re rare and beautiful._

Sherlock smiled wistfully, curling his fingers around the glass, wishing again for John.

A knock at the door drew him back from his thoughts.

“Come in,” he called, slipping the sea glass back into his pocket.

Mycroft pushed open the door and stepped inside holding something in his hand.

“I thought you might need this, since the days are growing colder.” He held out a blue scarf to Sherlock. “This was Uncle Rudy’s. It's cashmere. He always had a taste for the finer things in life. It should keep you nicely warm."

Sherlock took the scarf and looped it around his neck. He turned back to the mirror. “Hides the scars rather well, too,” he commented dryly.

Mycroft looked over his shoulder into the mirror, tilting his head. “The color suits you."

Sherlock ran his hand down the soft fabric, found it pleasing to the touch. "What ever happened to Uncle Rudy?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Mother said he went off to Berlin and joined a rather infamous burlesque troupe when you were still quite young. He died in a freak accident of some sort backstage. At least he was buried in his favorite silk stockings under his suit, she said."

Sherlock gaped at Mycroft. "Why don't I remember that story?"

"I never had a chance to tell you. You were off at boarding school, then at university. And you never took an interest in family matters, frankly. You were much too occupied with other self-indulgent pursuits."

Sherlock smoothed the scarf, realizing again what an ingrate he'd been. “I missed so much, and now our family is dying out."

Mycroft met his gaze in the mirror, smiling slightly. “I wouldn’t say that. Apparently some of us are too stubborn to die. But do be careful, won’t you?”

Sherlock returned the small smile, then adjusted the scarf once more, deciding he quite liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How I love the Holmes brothers... Short and quiet chapter this week, but consider this the calm before the storm...


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that this chapter contains some minor violence and allusions to suicide (which are not acted on).

The wind was sharp, the moonless night cold and foreboding. Sherlock sank deeper into his cloak and scarf, knowing that he was undoubtedly the most frightening creature moving among the trees at this hour. The thought offered little comfort, however, as the stone walls of Moriarty's castle rose in front of him.

He patted the side of his horse’s neck, trying to calm her skittishness. After some thought, he dismounted, tied the reins to a branch, and gave her one more pat before setting off on foot. He skirted the perimeter of the walls, searching for the stone steps he remembered leading up from the laboratory.

He stopped at an archway that looked familiar and took a deep breath. He was insane for coming back here, he muttered to himself. A childhood chant flitted through his mind: _Curiosity killed the cat._

He touched a gritty stone block with bare fingers. _But satisfaction brought him back._

He took another deep breath and descended down the dark flight of stairs.

He moved stealthily into the depths of the castle, instinct guiding him to the chamber where he had been reawakened from the dead.

He could smell the laboratory before he could see it -- formaldehyde, dampness, a coppery tang. Soon he stood in the doorway, his eyes adjusting to the flickering light of a solitary lantern that threw sinister shadows across the walls. Strange objects floated in glass specimen jars, scalpels and rib spreaders lay in trays, vials and wires and dials loomed along the periphery. In the center of the room was the table, the cradle of his violent rebirth.

Sherlock took slow steps forward, drawn to the metal table irresistibly but with dread. He stopped at the foot of the table, overcome by the memory of the heavy chain and iron cuff biting into his leg, the wild fear seizing his body. He reached out to touch the cold surface, terror and humiliation and a nameless rage fighting within him.

He gazed upwards, swallowing down the knot that had formed in his throat. He caught sight of a smattering of stars that glittered through the opening in the roof far above.

He needed air, needed to regain his bearings. He grabbed the lantern and made his way up a set of winding stairs to a heavy door that he pushed open. He stumbled out to the rooftop, inhaling deeply, settling the queasiness in his gut. He placed the lantern by his feet and ran his hand over his mouth, then dipped his fingers into his pocket, checking for the oval piece of sea glass. It was still there, safe and sound.

Sing-song words snaked through his brain.

_A bad penny always turns up, they say. The pathetic wretch has returned home._

Sherlock looked up, uncertain whether the voice was a figment of his imagination, a filament of memory, or something else entirely.

_Look at you, dressed like a proper gentleman._

Sherlock turned his head slowly, trying to find the source of the voice in the shadows, still unsure if it was real.

_But we both know what you’re really made of under that fine suit._

A figure stepped from the shadows into the pool of lamplight. Black hair, dark eyes, a flash of sharp teeth in a sneer. “Scraps.”

Sherlock stood immobilized, staring at Moriarty who was suddenly all too real.

The professor clucked his tongue in mock sympathy. “Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Do you even have any feelings, you great lump?” Moriarty ambled leisurely toward Sherlock, his coat tails ruffled by a chilly breeze. “I must say, I'm a tad surprised to see you. It's unusual to have someone sneak in, although a few curious souls have tried. Odder still to find you up here. I'd almost forgotten you existed.

"But then I remembered." Moriarty let out an exaggerated sigh. "You were such a disappointment. I told Watson to get rid of you, but it’s so hard to find good help these days…” His face went flat. “I should have finished the job myself.”

Sherlock’s eyes bored into him. “Why don’t you try again?”

Moriarty’s eyebrows rose. “Oh ho! So now it speaks! Bravo!” he applauded mockingly, circling around Sherlock. “Well done!”

Sherlock glared at him, trying not to react to his taunts.

“Did Watson train you, hmm? Running off with his mute little pet, teaching it tricks…” Moriarty stopped in front of Sherlock, raking his eyes over his face. “Although, I can see why he’d want to keep you around on a leash.”

“While you prefer to keep things chained to a table,” Sherlock retorted. “Surely you tried your experiments again. Where are the others?”

“In the courtyard, deep under the dirt where they belong. Failures, all of them.” Moriarty gazed curiously at Sherlock. “You’re the only one to survive.”

“No thanks to you.”

Moriarty smiled insincerely. “So you’re the special one. The prodigal son returned home.” He clapped his hands together once, loudly. “Alright, I’ll play your game. Why come back? What is it you want?”

Sherlock’s hand balled into a fist. “To ask you why.”

“Why _what?_ Why is the sky blue? Why do dogs bark?” Moriarty sneered sarcastically. “Be _precise,_ you idiot.”

Sherlock grimaced, wanting to throttle him. “Why did you you make me?” he gritted through his teeth.

Moriarty nodded slowly, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “Let me first ask you this: What is death like? What did you see?”

Sherlock frowned, his voice cold. "Nothing. There is nothing."

Moriarty shrugged, turning up his hands, speaking to Sherlock as if he were a simpleton. "But I want everything. And I want it forever.” His eyes narrowed. “But with perfection. Not like you, pale, cobbled together from leftovers.”

“Yet you personally selected some parts from among the living, didn’t you?” Sherlock seethed. “You rather went out of your way, bloodying your hands by murdering me… Of all the people in the world, why choose me?

Moriarty smirked. “I needed a scholar, a good brain. Your face wasn’t half bad, either… And your drug habit made it all too easy to pluck you off the street like a stray dog. Few questions would be asked with an unpleasant reputation like yours. No one really cared, it seems."

Sherlock felt like he’d been punched in the sternum, his shoulders slumping, his worst suspicions confirmed. No one but Mycroft would have missed him if he'd stayed dead. He felt his bravado fading, his uncertainty growing.

Sensing he hit a weak spot, Moriarty hammered on. “You were an outcast then as you are now. Flawed and expendable. You're just one experiment of many, a lowly stepping stone to something far superior."

"You should have given me more time," Sherlock railed, hating himself for so desperately wanting one shred of approval from his creator. "I learned. I have memories. You didn't give me a chance."

"Because you are and always will be imperfect." Moriarty's words lashed like a whip. "You’re an anomaly, an abomination.” He took a step closer to Sherlock. “I’ll find the way to immortality, but you have no purpose. Not as a half-being, not in this world.” His eyes flicked over Sherlock’s face, his body advancing, maneuvering Sherlock backwards toward the edge of the roof. "You'd be better off among the dead."

Sherlock could feel the wind that rose up the castle walls playing along his back, lifting and fluttering the hem of his long cloak. A muscle in his cheek quivered where he clenched his jaw. He told himself he didn’t believe the cruel words spewing from Moriarty's mouth. And yet... the professor was fanning the small spark of doubt that burned constantly in his mind. Freak. Outcast.

He turned and gazed down into the darkness below.

"Why not just end it all now?" Moriarty taunted softly. "One little step and off you go... No more worries, no more hiding, no more burden to your precious John Watson."

Sherlock stared into the black abyss, picturing the rocks and tufts of grass far below. A rush of cold air, a sudden impact, and then silence.

“You’re vile,” Sherlock retorted, his voice weaker than he intended, his eyes still trained on the blackness.

“You’re _nothing,_ " the professor whispered menacingly near Sherlock's face.

The distinct click of a revolver loading broke the silence. "He's more human than you'll ever be, you sick bastard."

They both turned, shocked by the sudden intrusion. Sherlock's mouth fell open at the sight of John standing by the open door, his arms extended, the revolver in his left hand pointed at Moriarty's heart. Sherlock's own heart leapt, relief mixing with fear, his mind instantly snapping from its daze.

"Watson." Moriarty's mouth curved up. "Isn't this nice? We're all together again. For the moment, anyway. Your pet was just about to leave."

"Move away from him," John ordered Moriarty. "Or I'll shoot."

"Now, Watson, do you really think you could pull the trigger?" Moriarty asked condescendingly.

"With pleasure," John answered without hesitation.

For the first time, Sherlock saw a flicker of doubt cross Moriarty's face. Before he could react, Moriarty swiftly drew a pistol from the folds of his coat and pointed it at John.

"Then you need to be eliminated as well."

Time slowed as Sherlock mentally raced through a dozen scenarios. Moriarty clearly considered John the greater threat, believing Sherlock was too compromised to act quickly. If Moriarty managed to shoot John first, he could fire at Sherlock next. Two more fresh graves for the courtyard.

If John shot first and accurately, Moriarty might fall instantly. If his aim was off, Moriarty could still take them both out.

Milliseconds dropped away. Sherlock glanced at John, took in his determined expression, his set jaw, his hard eyes. John was here, voluntarily standing in the line of fire for him.

Nothing Moriarty could say mattered anymore. Any resolution he’d hoped to find by returning here was swept away, disintegrated. What mattered was John. His pulse beat a little faster, suddenly knowing he would do anything in the world to protect him.

Time was running out. Sherlock could sense the tension mounting, palms tightening on the grips of the guns, fingers squeezing the triggers ever so slightly, eyes unblinking. He had to act now. Decisively.

He lunged toward the gun in Moriarty's hand, driving his shoulder into Moriarty's chest, the sharp cracks of two revolvers firing exploding in his ears.

He heard a low grunt of pain, felt Moriarty's legs buckle as he slid through his grasp. Sherlock looked down at him in shock. He could see no blood, but he'd clearly been shot.

His eyes roamed over Moriarty's form for some sign of the bullet entry. There, on his left side, a neat hole in his coat leading to his lungs. Moriarty was still alive, his glassy eyes tracking Sherlock's movements. He kicked the gun far from Moriarty's reach.

 _John_. Sherlock looked up with a start, his head snapping to where John had been standing. He, too, now lay on the ground. Sherlock scrambled over to him, kneeled by his side.

"John, tell me you're not hurt," he said urgently, searching his face.

John was clutching his left shoulder and struggling to sit up. "Fucking hell," he swore, looking at the blood that stained his fingers. "He fucking shot me."

Sherlock thought he'd never heard more beautiful words, knowing that John was alive. He unwound his scarf from around his neck, applied a makeshift bandage to John's shoulder to slow the bleeding. They would need to get to a doctor soon.

"I told you not to come," Sherlock chastised as he tied off the scarf.

"It's a bloody good thing I arrived when I did," John countered, drawing in a sharp breath as he moved his arm slightly. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock nodded. John jutted his chin toward Moriarty. "What about him?"

Sherlock turned to stare impassively at Moriarty. His eyes were trained on them, a small smirk playing on his lips that were drained of color.

Sherlock squeezed John's leg once in reassurance before rising to his feet and crossing back to Moriarty. He looked down at him, assessing that he would likely die slowly and painfully from the wound. He was unmoved.

"Immortality... " Sherlock said icily. "How will you achieve that now?"

"I'll see you in hell," Moriarty grimaced, struggling for breath, "you monster."

This time Sherlock's mouth curved in a cold half smile. "We're both monsters."

He wedged his foot under Moriarty's back and shoved hard, sending him over the edge of the roof. Moriarty fell without uttering a sound, his face frozen in surprise, his hands clawing uselessly at the air. The rustle of cloth fluttered in the wind, ending with a sickening thud in the darkness below.

Sherlock gazed into the blackness for a few moments longer, then turned resolutely back to face John, knowing full well he'd witnessed everything.

John met his eyes somberly, still cradling his shoulder. He took a deep breath, picked up his revolver that had fallen to the side, tucked it into his jacket.

"Good riddance. Now help me up." John held out his uninjured arm and Sherlock stepped forward to grasp his hand firmly, helping John to his feet.

He held on to John's hand longer than necessary, pulling him closer, leaning down to press their foreheads together. He wanted to say so many things, but couldn't. He felt mute again, words lost, the timing all wrong.

His brushed his nose along John's, their lips meeting in an almost kiss.

It would have to wait until later. After John was safely seen to, they would lie together and talk and twine and touch. He breathed John in, regathering strength.

"I'll take care of you," he promised, helping John toward the stairs, vowing silently never to return to this place. He was free.

 

*******************

John's head nodded against Sherlock's shoulder as they jounced along in a carriage to Sherlock's family estate. John was asleep, aided by a heavy dose of morphine to dampen the pain.

They'd found a doctor in the nearest village and paid him handsomely to ask no questions about the bullet he removed from John's shoulder. Sherlock had stayed in the shadows, his collar turned high and cuffs pulled low to hide his scars. He’d watched with interest as the doctor pulled the sutures through John's skin, closing the wound.

Surely Mycroft with his uncanny sixth sense would know they were coming and have a room ready with a warm fire. Sherlock wanted nothing more than for John to rest and heal. London was too far to travel with his injury.

Sherlock slipped his arm around John, trying to hold him steady against the jostling. John groaned, murmured something unintelligible, then shifted, curling his legs up onto the seat, letting his head sink down onto Sherlock’s lap, barely able to fit onto the makeshift bed.

“Good thing you’re short,” Sherlock teased gently. He stroked his fingers through the hair above John’s temple, not minding the weight of John's head rocking against his thighs. The sun was just beginning to rise above the horizon, bathing the landscape in pale light. Sherlock gazed down at John’s face, then closed his own eyes, the carriage swaying him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was intense to write, let me tell you. But don't worry, things get much happier (and hotter) next chapter.
> 
> ETA: I wrote this scene before The Abominable Bride aired-- it was so strange to see something so similar played out on screen. I had that weird moment of, wait, is this for real?? That was wild.


	8. Chapter 8

John woke to the strains of music floating into his consciousness. It was a quiet melody on the violin, nothing he recognized, but pleasant nonetheless. He snuggled deeper under the covers, then let out a sharp gasp when pain surged through his left shoulder.

He opened his eyes with some difficulty. Where the hell was he? And why, he wondered with some alarm, was he naked? The bed he was lying in was large with ornately carved posts at each corner. The sheets and duvet were soft and finely woven. Everything in the room -- heavy drapes, deep rugs, glazed tiles along the fireplace -- conveyed wealth.

His gaze landed next on a dark cloak draped over a chair, the blue scarf, laundered clean, laid beside it. So Sherlock was here somewhere. On the bedside table, bottles of medicine and tins of ointment glinted in the sun, along with an oval piece of green sea glass.

John looked down at the bandage covering his shoulder. Slowly, events began to fill in. The desperate ride back to Moriarty's castle, fearing for the worst. Sherlock on the rooftop, the professor's poisonous words, the revolvers, the bullets, the blood, the body pitching over the castle wall.

His mouth was dry and his head ached. He eased himself out of the bed and shuffled to the en suite bathroom for a long drink of water and a wash. He pulled on a blue silk dressing gown that hung on a peg near the bathtub, ran his hand over several days of stubble, and smoothed down his damp hair.

He had just removed the bandage and cleaned the stitches in his shoulder when there was a soft rap at the bedroom door.

Sherlock stepped into the room and closed the door. "So, you're awake. How's the shoulder?"

John finished rinsing his hands in the sink. "Hurts like hell, to be honest."

Sherlock leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, a smile playing on his lips. "Then I insist you get back into bed immediately."

John smirked back, returning to the bed with Sherlock leading the way. He let the robe pool off his shoulders, then tossed it over a bedpost and slid under the sheets again. He watched as Sherlock kicked off his shoes, thumbed open the buttons of his shirt and climbed into bed with him, lying on his side and propping himself up on his elbow.

John was still a bit muddled. "Where exactly are we? What time is it?"

"It's half past four in the afternoon, you've been sleeping all day, and we're in my bedroom."

John looked at him, perplexed. "Your room?"

"I brought you here to recover. This is my family's home. Well, mainly Mycroft's at this point."

John's eyes travelled around the room again. "You're richer than I thought," he said tactlessly.

Sherlock answered with a nonchalant shrug. "Once you're feeling better, we can go on to London."

London. John nearly snorted, remembering. "I was barely there three days when I turned around and came back after you."

"Did Mycroft send for you?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.

"No. I just had a very bad feeling."

Sherlock went silent, twisting the sheet between his fingers as John spoke.

"I rode as hard as I could. I was afraid -- " John stopped and Sherlock glanced up at him. "I was afraid of what Moriarty might do. When I saw you on the roof and heard what he was saying... He could get into your head, convince you of terrible things."

"Doubts." Sherlock filled in. "He played them masterfully." He smoothed the creases out of the sheet. "At least he won't be tormenting anyone ever again. It's over."

He continued to move his palm restlessly across the covers, avoiding John's eyes. "Thank you, for being there. But I would have finished it, one way or another. You didn't have to come back."

John laid his hand over Sherlock's, stopping his motion. "I wanted to."

Sherlock finally met his eyes, his voice low. "You got shot. You could have died."

"But I didn't. It was my choice to make. I don't regret anything."

Sherlock looked as if he might continue to argue, then his expression relaxed as he finally capitulated.

"You did arrive rather heroically," Sherlock reluctantly admitted, fitting himself against John's side. "Since when do you carry a revolver?"

"I thought I might need it in case there was trouble."

Sherlock trailed his fingers down the inside of John’s forearm. "I think you go looking for trouble."

"I can't seem to resist it."

They held each other's gazes, the mood growing more intimate. Sherlock grazed his fingers across John's chest.

"I couldn’t help but notice," John said lightly, watching Sherlock's hand slide down his sternum and linger just above his navel, “that someone took my clothes.”

"They're being cleaned and mended. I'm sure there's a spare set of clothes somewhere."

John sucked in a breath as Sherlock's hand skimmed incrementally lower. "Don't think I'll be needing them right away." He gingerly shifted against the pillows, trying to slow the heat pooling in his groin. He really should be resting. But this was far too enticing...

He tried to distract himself with another question. "Did I hear violin music earlier? Was that Mycroft?"

Sherlock's fingers fluttered across John's hipbone. "That was me."

"I didn't know you played."

"I didn't either. Not until yesterday. Miss Adler did say there might be traces of the others left." He slid his palm down John's thigh. "My hands and fingers just know what to do."

John bit his lip, his cock twitching. “That’s highly suggestive.”

Sherlock raised a teasing eyebrow, continuing to toy with John, moving his hand up to splay over his ribs. “Tell me what London is like.”

John's response came out disjointedly. “Huge. Bustling. Mysterious and mundane. Beautiful and ugly. Everything you can think of.”

“And the flat?”

“Very nice. Tall windows, sitting room, kitchen, bathroom, two bedrooms,” John was growing even warmer as Sherlock’s cool fingertips brushed over his nipples. “The landlady, Mrs. Hudson, is sweet. She grows all kinds of plants. Calls herself an herbalist.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “More of the old ways.”

John managed to focus, putting forth a theory that he'd been contemplating. “Did you ever consider,” he started, “that you have some magic in your blood? That maybe you survived and learned so quickly because you have some of the old ways?"

Sherlock stilled. “It wouldn’t be impossible...” A serious look crossed his face then quickly lifted, as if he tucked the notion away to examine another time. “It’s intriguing, but right now, I’m a bit preoccupied with other matters."

Sherlock’s hands roamed over John's body, and John coiled his fingers into Sherlock's hair. He wished his shoulder wasn’t so damn sore. If he could, he’d roll on top of Sherlock and pin him down under a slow and seductive kiss.

As if he’d read his thoughts, Sherlock inched closer, placing a hand on either side of John’s face, fingers playing over the stubble of his beard. It felt wonderful, being together again, safe and private, surrounded by the smell of soap and crisp sheets and a hint of honeyed candle wax warmed in the slant of the late afternoon sun.

They leaned in, their mouths meeting in a deep kiss, fingers kneading into the base of skulls, breath mingling, exchanging heated glances under lowered lashes. John captured Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth, releasing it with a long, sultry pull, Sherlock’s eyes closing in response.

"Just how painful is your shoulder?" Sherlock asked, his voice husky.

John let out a sigh of frustration. “Bad. I can't really move it.”

"But I can move," Sherlock murmured, sitting up to work off his shirt, tug off his trousers, slipping back under the sheets. The cool skin of his legs brushed against John’s as he pressed the length of their bodies together again, naked and supple, mouths and tongues tasting and twining. Sherlock’s palm wandered down John’s side, skimming down to the vee of his groin, cupping his balls, stroking up his cock.

“Lie back,” Sherlock ordered in a low rumble, gently pushing John deeper into the pillows. “And I’ll do all the work." He threw one long leg over John’s hips and straddled him, running his hands down his chest.

John gazed up at him, mesmerized by the muscles of Sherlock's arm flexing beneath the skull and crossbones tattoo. He reached up to trace the outlines of the ink. “And what skills did the sailor leave behind?”

Sherlock smiled a bit wickedly. “Tying intricate knots, navigating by the stars,” he paused, “and fucking. God, the variety...”

The stunned look on John’s face caused Sherlock to smile wider. “A lover in every port… and on every ship, apparently.”

The wheels of John’s imagination were spinning wildly when Sherlock’s mouth descended over his again, claiming him hungrily, one hand anchored in his hair. A small moan of pleasure escaped from John's lips, pain fading into the background.

Sherlock slid his mouth down John's neck, kissing the curve of his collarbone, his chest, his stomach. He grasped the base of John's cock and guided the tip to his mouth, full lips wrapping around the head, tongue swirling, sucking and teasing until John began to writhe.

Sherlock pulled off, stretching up to bracket himself over John's body again.

"How do you want me?" Sherlock growled, grazing his mouth against the hot skin beneath John's ear. "Anything you want."

At that moment, restrained beneath lean thighs and sinewy arms, John wanted to relinquish himself to Sherlock completely. He rarely gave up control, but now -- injured, tired, relieved, immensely aroused -- he wanted to be engulfed.

"Fuck me," he murmured into the curls along Sherlock's forehead, "long and slow."

Sherlock clenched the sheets near John's head, letting out a shudder of breath. "You," he whispered, kissing John's throat, working his way along the underside of his jaw, "are full of surprises."

John lay back against the pillows, half covered by Sherlock's body, faintly aware of the shadows lengthening across the ceiling. Sherlock reached across him to the bedside table, rummaging for something on top.

“This will have to do,” Sherlock said, grabbing hold of a small glass bottle. John recognized it as an oil that Sherlock sometimes rubbed into his skin when his sutures ached.

Sherlock knelt on the mattress, pouring a golden drizzle of the oil onto his fingers. He reached forward, gently spreading John's legs apart. Sherlock's fingers glided a path down the cleft between John's buttocks, one fingertip loitering, touching, slowly pressing into him.

John released the breath he had been holding, relaxing into the pressure. Sherlock prowled slowly up his body again, finger working him open, his mouth seeking the heat of John's.

John kept his left arm bent at the elbow, his palm on his chest, trying to refrain from moving it as much as possible. In contrast, his right hand greedily sought the nape of Sherlock's neck, the jut of his shoulder blade, the slope of his back, clutching a handful of smooth arse cheek as two long fingers pushed into him

"Christ," John slurred, nerves singing.

John sighed raggedly when Sherlock withdrew his hand. He knelt between John 's legs again, poured another strand of oil onto his glistening fingers, slicking them over his erect cock, massaging his shaft unhurriedly.

John gazed at him, aching for the cool hardness of Sherlock’s body, stunned again by his odd beauty and the strange circumstances of his existence. The forces that had brought them together were a mystery, sparked by a powerful stroke of lightning. Maybe, John thought hazily, it was just meant to be.

His musings were swept aside as Sherlock rose to his knees, his hands smoothing over John’s legs as he pushed them back and positioned himself between his splayed thighs. Sherlock guided the head of his cock and nudged forward, patient but insistent. The tip of his cock slipped in and they both exhaled in a rush of sensation.

John kept his eyes locked on Sherlock as he rolled his hips, pushing in and out slowly, taking his time, dipping forward, pulling back, the motion of the waves, undulating.

"You're tight, so hot inside," Sherlock breathed out, his head tipping back in pleasure, fully exposing his scars. "You’re like a furnace. It feels amazing."

John canted his hips upwards, wanting to take more.

"Go deeper," John's voice was smokey. His right hand wrapped around his own cock, stroking it a few times, his thumb playing over the head, a clear droplet of pre-cum shining at the slit.

Sherlock spread John's thighs wider and thrusted harder, still keeping the pace slow, circling his hips. John bit his lower lip, trying to hold back several choice expletives that tumbled out anyway.

_God... Fuck... Mmm... Just… fuck… more… more… ah, christ..._

The room was growing darker, the slap of skin faster, small grunts and gasps and groans filling the air like shimmering dust motes. Sherlock’s fingers gripped John’s thighs, hips pumping, eyes hooded, chest and leg muscles taut with effort.

“I’m close,” Sherlock panted softly, “-- oh God -- John --” Sherlock bucked, moaning, his orgasm seizing his body, warm pulses of semen flooding into John’s hot core.

John worked his fist over his cock, falling into the utter abandonment on Sherlock’s face as he thrust the last few times, milking his release in John's clenching muscles. John stroked himself faster, Sherlock's cum and cock filling him, his own climax building.

Sherlock slid his hands under John's arse, long thumbs blazing a trail up the straining tendons of his inner thighs, the soft pads pressing under his balls, rolling them up to the root of John's cock.

That was it. John came with a stifled shout, something guttural and glorious as strands of cum shot onto his torso, several milky drops landing at the base of his throat. Sherlock was suddenly there again, cradling John under his pale body, smearing their hips and chests together, kissing his neck, lapping up the warm fluid that had spilled near the hollow of his throat.

Their breath was quick as their lips met again, the musky scent of sex clinging to their skin, hearts hammering against each other's ribs, one fast and hard, one fainter and slower. Sherlock gradually slipped off to John's side again, each lost in a drowsy afterglow.

Sherlock ran his fingertips delicately over John's injured shoulder, one fingertip grazing the dark knots of the stitches that bound the wound.

“Look at us both," Sherlock said quietly. "Pieced back together."

John grasped Sherlock's fingers in his hand, pressing them to his lips, then turned Sherlock's palm up to kiss the sutures that circled his wrist.

“It just means that we have stories,” John said, folding their fingers together.

Sherlock smiled softly, pressing against him. “Always the romantic.”

John gazed back contentedly. _Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween (or whatever time of year it is)! I hope you enjoyed this sweet treat of an ending. Thank you for reading! Any feedback you care to leave is greatly appreciated. A lot. 
> 
> If you're in the mood for more supernatural/magical/vampire Johnlock, here's my Halloween fic from last year: [An Offer of Immortality](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2472077/chapters/5483036)
> 
> Or 'A Beautifully Frightening Revelation'
> 
> Me on Tumblr: 221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor.tumblr.com

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Lightning and Sea Glass' by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7327357) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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